


Those Who Stand on Four Legs are Beasts, Those Who Stand on Two Legs, Guts, and Glory are Men

by DreamoftheWild



Series: Linktober 2020 [5]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Found Family, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26947519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamoftheWild/pseuds/DreamoftheWild
Summary: Warriors has a self reflection.Linktober 2020: #6
Series: Linktober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951177
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	Those Who Stand on Four Legs are Beasts, Those Who Stand on Two Legs, Guts, and Glory are Men

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt was: Fall!
> 
> I don't know how I turned an autumn theme into angst but here you go. 
> 
> (Honestly I was writing fluff for this prompt but as you can see I got stuck on it for several days and said screw it!! I wanted to continue on with Linktober)
> 
> Also the title is a Gintama episode title. lol

_ “You’ll never amount to anything. _ ” The voice echoes in his head, haunting him always during sleep and waking hours.

He ran away to the army, rising through the ranks, a natural. It wasn't enough, it never was. Father wouldn't look at him, not anymore. Mother wouldn't have died if he was never born. 

On his hand, the Triforce glows bright, but he doesn't feel courageous at all, not throughout his whole quest. When he comes home after it all, he still feels small.

Fallen comrades, there are so many they have to dig shared graves. Some no longer have names to be remembered.

_ Where were you? _

_ Where were you,  _ **_Captain_ ** _? _

His favorite pastime after the war is drinking. The feeling of a bottle touching his lips becomes familiar. The days fly by in a drunken blur, a year, maybe two, go without notice. He falls into a hole so deep he can't seem to crawl out. 

There was not a day he went sober, the princess nor Impa had need of him any longer, he had all the time in the world to waste. 

He wandered from tavern to tavern, nowhere to call home. He often found himself waking up in a heap in some hidden alley in Castletown. 

_ Some hero. _

His tunic was dirty, like his hands, never taken care of, stashed at the bottom of his bag. Like his emotions were pushed down in his heart. 

Until one day a rope falls into his self-made hole. He grasps it, craving the love he never knew. Hands pull him out, smiling faces greet him, arms are wide open. 

Eight heroes, like him, each with their own history and adventures. They don't care that he smelled like alcohol and vomit. They picked him up off the ground, dusted him off.

It’s a struggle, his problems won't go away overnight. His self doubt continues to torment his mind. Some nights his fingers itch for a flask, anything to hide the pain. He's determined, he has to keep going. For them, he can't let his friends down. They can't die again-

“Wars! Snap out of it!” 

He comes back, suddenly aware of the growing hoard surrounding the group. He raises his sword skyward, power growing behind his strike. He brings it down, moving in a fast spin, slicing through a whole gathering of Bokoblins. He alone fells half of the monsters, anger in each swing. He flips and dodges, a practice all too difficult yet comes to him naturally. 

A Ghoma appears on the field, and he rushes forward before anyone else notices. His attacks are vicious, every swipe filled with his pain, the violence is his therapy. He yells at each hit that connects, screaming his sorrows into the wind. How many soldiers died to these damn things? How many because he wasn't there? Because he wasn't a good leader?

“Warriors, stop. It's dead.” Time’s voice is directly in his ear, his sword hand is gripped tight, stopping his next movement. He takes gasping breaths, adrenaline sapping from his body. His throat is sore from screaming, his face is wet with tears. He knows they won't say anything or ridicule him, they saw him at his worst before. 

Later, Warriors wipes his blade off with a loose cloth, listening to his friends chatter excitedly as they set up camp for the night. A sense of belonging fills his soul. He found it. Family. After so long, after years of wandering and pain, he’s home.

He won’t fall again.


End file.
